


Heart of Hearts

by Nana_41175



Category: Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: First Love, M/M, Oliver's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: In Oliver's words.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features Oliver’s version of the book/movie events. Don’t know if this has been done yet. Probably already has. Anyway, here is my take on the whole thing.

**Author's Notes** : I have over a million WIP's, god help me, but here, have another one. The book killed me, and the movie most certainly will when it comes out. Scenarios are taken from both-- they may not be in the proper sequence as seen in the movie though. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

_God, he's beautiful._

This, my first impression upon seeing him advancing through the doorway of his parents' living room, his hand already extended as his father made the short, necessary introductions. Even then, and through the haze of fatigue and jetlag that blanketed my mind like thick fog, the thought was not lost on me.

"Nice to meet you. Elio," he said as I murmured a perfunctory _how are you doing._ Our handshake was firm and brief, thoroughly appropriate for a first meeting.

He carried my bags up the stairs, all long, pale limbs and bare feet, leading me to a room that was clearly his own and all tidied up for their summer guest.

I would be staying with them for six weeks.

He set my bags down inside his room-- my room now-- and I was already heading over to the bed-- his bed-- where welcome oblivion beckoned. I let my fatigue get the better of me. He may or may not have been chatting with me, I would not know. Better to engage in proper conversation tomorrow, when I would be able to take in and process all of this, and him, in the morning.

* * *

 

I should have known that it would be no better in the morning, with its limpid sunlight; the glorious Italian landscape, already so evident just in their garden.

We had breakfast outdoors. He sat at the head of the wooden table, between his parents, and amidst the warm chatter of the grownups, he cast me a brief glance, his gaze shuttered.

"I can show you around," he said, and there was a hint of caution in his voice which belied the apparent casual kindness of his words.

I remembered starting awake last night when he dropped a book on the bedroom floor as a way of announcing that dinner was ready. Where was that boy now?

"That would be great, thank you," I said.

There. Just a way to show him that I could do polite-casual as well, probably better than he could.

* * *

 

"So what do you do around here?" I asked.

We were seated at an outdoor table of a local _bartabaccheria_ , our drinks in front of us.

"Read, transcribe music, swim at the river, go out at night," he replied. We'd donned on sunglasses to ward off the glare of the midday sun. That he knew I would not be able to read him with his eyes hidden behind dark lenses seemed to embolden him, the impish boy from last night emerging to frolic somewhere within the languid tone of his voice, the way he seemed entirely at ease as he lounged in his chair with his book.

He was seventeen, with the attitude to match, yet he looked younger than his years. And gorgeous, with his thick, wavy hair and dark-fringed eyes, heavy-lidded yet sharply observant. It took me only a moment during breakfast to realize that very little escaped his attention. He was smart as a whip like his father, wrapped in his mother's beauty and sensitivity.

It was all quite unfair, really.

Best not to go down that road, I told myself as I recognized all the signs of impending infatuation gathering inside me: fascination and a deep-seated longing that would take root and grow if only I let it. And if I let it, the very real danger of making a fool of myself, over the professor's son, no less, and inside their house as I took advantage of their kindness and hospitality.

At twenty-four, I had to remind myself that I was too old for this. I was too old to be grappling with an issue whose only possible outcome was clear as crystal.

_Back off, Oliver._

I could tell that he liked me, despite his affectation of cool indifference. Perhaps he was aware of it; perhaps not. All the more thrilling, which was not good. At all. Best to keep my cards close, to nip the entire thing in the bud, which I did minutes later with an _alright. Later!_

That seemed to unsettle him. I'd shaken him off, at least for the time being.

At day one, it was much too early to have him guess that not only did I find him beautiful, but adorable as well. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Hey everyone! Here's another chapter! Please note that except for some trailers (and spoilers) I've not seen the movie and am basing the sequence of the action in this chapter from the book. Spoilers galore, of course. Please be advised.

* * *

Within a few days, he'd decided that he wouldn't look me in the face unless it was absolutely necessary. Just a distracted glance thrown in my general direction would do. Nor did he feel it necessary to greet me when he came into a room where I happened to be in. There was to be nothing, not even a small nod of acknowledgement.

 _Smooth_ , I thought. So he already knew, or at least was aware of the thing coming into being between us.

His evasion stung, nevertheless. I never expected it to, but it did. Talk about juvenile.

I soon learned that Pro and Mrs P. kept a steady stream of guests over for almost every meal. I was to discover soon enough that the phenomenon had a name: _dinner drudgery._

After dinner, sometimes he would be asked to play something on the piano. He had a way with music, a way of touching something within me without having to resort to cumbersome words; just liquid notes of emotion, pure and honest. Sometimes, it seemed the only way we could converse was through his music-- that morning when he'd teased me with three different piano versions of the notes he'd played on the guitar, when all I ever asked for was Bach's rendition.

He'd temporarily shucked off his shyness and was showing off, and-- perhaps he did not know it yet-- we'd found our own way of flirting with each other.

I was beginning to be immersed in his world, highly cultured and intellectual, overflowing with affection from all sides. Clearly, he was beloved, even adored. There were hugs and kisses at almost every turn. It seemed there really were families out there as charming and perfect as his. I wondered if he knew just how lucky he was.

Despite the silent push and pull of the thing growing between us, there were respites. One could not help but thaw a little the longer one stayed in his company. He could be very engaging when he chose. We were granted special occasions when our thoughts would align perfectly and he would see through me as though he were entirely myself. It scared me.

That rare evening when we didn't have guests for dinner and his father was exhorting him to go out more and be less by himself, I blurted out something about watching a movie that night and, catching the way he smiled as he gave me one of his increasingly rare knowing glances, I knew that he was on to me: I was doing it for his benefit while pretending to do it for his father's sake.

We settled down to a routine: work in the mornings, helping Pro out and revising my manuscript by the pool while he worked on transcribing music-- hours spent in heaven.

I was beginning to meet his friends: kids mostly his age and a few older ones. It was easy enough to fit in, to be liked. Especially the girls. From then on there were regular lunch and dinner invites from all over, along with swimming and volleyball parties and bike rides to B. and the surrounding hills.

Then there was poker, and nights when I got back late to find the French windows of his bedroom standing wide open as I smoked on our shared balcony. I'd gaze into a sliver of the dark void of his room that was permitted from my angle and wonder if he was already sleeping, or was he up, just like me? Lying in bed but wide awake. Thinking, still thinking. Always thinking.

One night-- I could not help it-- I found myself not on the balcony but in front of his closed bedroom door. That evening I had sat with everyone at dinner and listened to him expound on his work transcribing Haydn's _Seven Last Words of Christ_. He had spoken in a rush, as though he could not wait to get the discussion over and done with. I was hopelessly charmed, not to mention deeply impressed. Who wouldn't be?

Only, that did not seem to have been the message conveyed when he happened to look up and glance at me. He'd seemed taken aback by my gaze, the intensity of it. Too late to back down, I had stared back at him relentlessly until he gave me a glare of his own. Whatever momentum our friendship had built up on came shuddering to a halt. We were back to our old game, though I thought the misunderstanding might come as a blessing.

_That's right. Keep me as far away as possible, Elio. It's for our own good._

Yet my steely resolution could crumble when I least expected it.

Now, I stood before his door, in the dead of night, and wished I could have taken my gaze back. I wished I could be kinder to him, to let him know that I liked him. There was no way to tell him in the bright, clear light of morning. This was all I was capable of.

The door was unlocked. It gave way obligingly with just the slightest push of my fingers.

Everything was pitch dark; for a moment, I could barely make him out before my eyes adjusted. He was lying prone on the bed, underneath the thin blanket. He was fast asleep. I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest as I sat myself on the edge of the bed, watching him and thinking. Thinking this was not wise, that he might wake up at any moment and there would be hell to pay for my inexplicable presence in his room; that I was a fool to go back on my own word of never giving in to the attraction that had kindled between me and this extremely gifted and special young man who seemed at times to be more knowledgeable and worldly than myself. 

Then, before I knew it, I was crawling forward on my hands and knees on the bed until I'd reached him, until I was draping myself over him. What possessed me to do it I would not know, only it seemed vitally important that I got to feel him breathing, to feel him beneath me. I was careful to keep my weight off him as, for the first time, I got to breathe him in--the scent of his hair, his skin.

He did not move, did not wake. Was it my imagination that I felt him relax further underneath me? As though he'd sunk deeper into sleep and given in to me in his dreams.

 _In my dreams_ , I thought as realization finally hit home.

What the hell was I doing?

I was off the bed in an instant, and out of his room in a few heartbeats. I'd made no sound. He would never know. I was never there.

Still, the feel of him lingered on my fingertips, his scent etched deep in my mind. And the way he surrendered to me, even if it were just in his dreams.

* * *

Sunday morning brought with it marvelous weather and an outdoor volleyball party. We played doubles. I was teamed up with Chiara. He sat by the sides, watching quietly along with the others.

The game was progressing well. Despite-- or perhaps _because--_ of the events that had transpired last night, I actually felt good. I felt buoyant, and as always when in that mood, my feelings translated themselves into an abundance of touches and hugs, the main recipient being my volleyball partner.

And also him.

During a break in the game I spotted him coming back from the refreshments stand clutching a large bottle of mineral water. Without another thought I went to him and made for the water bottle just as he was handing it out to his friend, Tommy.

My hand on his shoulder seemed entirely natural, accidental. Here, in front of his friends, it would not be seen as anything out of the ordinary-- just a friendly gesture, as were my fingers pressing in to lightly knead the muscles of his shoulder in affectionate camaraderie. Nobody would guess my touch held another meaning: _remember me, Elio, from last night?_

Yet he squirmed away, his eyes opaque as he regarded me for a second before twisting away from my grasp as though I'd burned him.

"What's the matter, you alright?" I had to ask. "Did I hit a nerve?"

"Huh? I'm okay," he replied.

He was _not_ okay. It could not have been clearer. It was almost as though I had placed my hand on his thigh, between his legs, instead of just on his shoulder.

His friends were all watching us.

"Here, hold this," I said as I handed him the water bottle and proceeded to lay my hands full on his shoulder for the benefit of everybody, as if to say, _Nothing to see here_. "Trust me, I'm about to be a doctor."

I had to pull him back when he attempted to move away again. He was exasperated now, and embarrassed. "Hey, hey, come here," I admonished, keeping my tone light. "See? That's the problem. You're too stressed. You should relax a little bit."

"I am relaxed," he said, almost snapping, as I gave his shoulder a few rounded turns.

"Marzia," I called, turning back to the girl whom he seemed to like a lot. "Come here for a minute. Back me up here."

I was returning him to safer ground as I guided Marzia's hand onto his shoulder. "Feel that," I said. "It's too tight, right? He needs to relax."

I was being called back to the game, and it was with some relief that I left them with a _Later! --_ as casual as I could make it.

What was it about him that could make me regress to age twelve in an instant?

If I had been years younger, perhaps about his age, I might have writhed from the humiliation. I was no longer seventeen-- I'd lived through several lifetimes since then-- but I'd learned my lesson. From hereon, I needed to keep my distance from him.

* * *

 

Here's the  [teaser](http://nana-41175.tumblr.com/post/167011246191/teaser-for-my-cmbyn-fic-heart-of-hearts-chapter-3) for the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** Hey! Welcome to chapter three. Same warnings as before-- spoilers galore. Also, the scenes here are at times an amalgamation of both book and movie. Again, the scene sequence depicted in the fic may not necessarily follow either that in the movie (which I have not seen) or even the book. It's all just Oliver putting together his version of accounts to better make sense of his feelings for Elio. Enjoy!

* * *

We withdrew.

There was now a coolness that pervaded our every interaction, pared down to near-mechanical responses. There was a physical distance between us that was scrupulously maintained but not so awkwardly that anybody else would notice. We still talked in front of his parents, his friends; the times when we bumped into each other on our shared balcony-- shallow chitchat that amounted to nothing and which I could supply in effortless abundance. Let's see who runs out of words first.

He turned to Marzia while I was engulfed by the constant company of Chiara and his other friends. We stopped jogging and swimming together in the early mornings. One day he'd disappeared for several hours and came back to the house, hand in hand with a smiling Marzia in her two-piece bathing suit, both of them damp from the river. I retaliated one afternoon when his friends came by, inviting me to an exploratory session of the hills, and one of them needed to borrow a bike. He'd just woken from his nap on the sofa and I'd asked him if he would mind lending Mario his bike for the afternoon; he had no need for it anyway as it was obvious to everyone that he wouldn't be coming with us. He'd merely shrugged and turned away, as if to say, _Go ahead. I couldn't care less_. I had merely turned to the others and shrugged, smiling, as if to say, _See? What did I tell you?_

Talk about petty cruelty, but there I was, reduced to a third of my age.

During the evenings when I was not out playing poker, we'd sometimes meet at Le Danzing. There, where everybody could afford to let loose and be silly for a few hours, we'd dance, sometimes side by side although with different partners. It was the closest that we could allow ourselves to be.

Chiara was proving to be quite tenacious. She was crushing pretty hard and was growing bolder by the day. The last time we were out on the river in a _gita_ , she had taken her bra off as she lay beside me. Now she sidled up to me on the dance floor, throwing her arms around my neck as she pressed herself against me, moving her hips against mine. Drunk with the heady music and from all the physical exertion I'd thrown into the dance, I let her have her way, my arms looping around her, pulling her close, taking in her perfume as I kissed her on the cheek. She felt good against me.

Amid the loud music and chatter came a few voices from the crowd: _Awww..._

I didn't realize we had an audience. She giggled conspiratorially against me as I pulled her in even closer, until I felt her slip her thigh between my legs.

I suspected that Chiara was running a bet between herself and some of her girlfriends: who will get to bag the summer guest? At that point I didn't mind humoring her, because at the back of my mind-- always at the back of my mind-- a thought would come, unbidden: _Did he see us? Let's hope he did._

* * *

He made himself scarce the day after, and still the day after that; which made it all the more certain that he had, in fact, seen.

 _Well_ , I said to myself. _Life goes on._

And life, indeed, went on, and quite splendidly. Pro had a treat in store for us: he'd just received word that a statue was found off the coast-- a very special one that we were going on site that day to watch the divers bring it up from the depths of the ocean.

But first, Chiara again.

She'd arrived early to see what I was up to and had decided to leave when I told her I would be immersed in work the entire day. She was ahead of me and I had to pull her in just as she was stepping out of the house. Smiling, we made an intimate picture as we walked a few steps out into the courtyard, where the car awaited me, my arm around her waist and she leaning into me as I murmured a few words into her ear before I stooped down to kiss her goodbye.

I straightened up to find that he had stationed himself by the car. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I _knew_ that he was already there, waiting for me and his father.

I adopted an unsmiling visage, barely looking at him as I made my way to the car. All the while, he was staring at Chiara as she mounted her bike and rode away.

I had sat myself down on the front seat when he leaned down to inform me in a neutral voice: "Dad always sits in front with Anchise and navigate."

He wasn't done with Chiara. After I'd let myself out of the car, he remarked, "She seems to like you a lot. She was more beautiful than she was last year."

I stared at him, then at Chiara's retreating figure.

He had on a slight smile as he continued in a confiding voice,  "I saw her naked on a night swim once"-- a little drum roll of his hand on the hood of the car-- "great body."

"Trying to get me to like her?" I asked, my voice cool, verging on frosty. In truth, I was angrier than I cared to admit.

I had an inkling as to why he was doing this-- gossiping about Chiara-- and it wasn't just done in the spirit of male camaraderie, no matter how much detail he would get into describing her body for me. He was trying to tell me that he preferred girls. Just like me, presumably.

I didn't like it. Not one bit.

He gazed back at me with his eyes safely hidden behind his dark sunglasses. "What would be the harm in that?" His voice was as cool as mine; a taunt.

I was mentally shaking my head. _Two can play this game, my friend. And unfortunately, I can play it better than you._

"No harm," I replied casually as I made to open the rear door of the car. "Except typically I'd like to go those things on my own, if you don't mind."

Of course, it was not lost on me that my displeasure provided a very convenient cover for everything that I did not care to examine at that point: I wanted him jealous, not conspiratorial. Let him think that I disliked his meddling into my affairs, and only that.

After a moment, he got in beside me, and the car, already very small, seemed to shrink ten times around us. The air around us, despite the heat of high summer, was like ice.

It was a relief when Pro finally arrived. He was by himself and he cheerfully asked me to come sit with him in front so that I could help him navigate the roads.

Stealing a glance at the rearview mirror as we drove, I could tell that the sole occupant of the back seat was not pleased. At all.

* * *

Of course, our little spat-- if one could call it that-- was totally ridiculous, and one could not stay angry or remain in such an absurd situation a single minute longer on such a fine day, when spirits were riding high. We arrived at the beach and Pro's enthusiasm was infectious as we stood around him and inspected a fragment of the statue-- an arm and a hand that had led to the discovery in the waters. Generously, Pro gave the arm over to my custody before he turned his attention to the boat, and that was when _he_ came over.

He'd blown off his little backseat tantrum and he was smiling as he extended a hand straight out to me. "Tregua?" he asked in Italian.

_Truce._

I smiled and, glancing around to see if anybody were observing us, I extended the statue's arm for him to shake hands with. This is us, I thought, and only through these kinds of actions which are non-actions can we speak of our true feelings.

Despite the things we could not say out loud, I wished fervently that we could still be good friends. There was no reason why we couldn't be, I thought.

_Just friends, Elio. I promise I won't ask for more, so you musn't either._

That was the state of things between us until I stepped into his room one afternoon, when everybody was suddenly gone from the house. From the way he jerked around in bed to face me, his eyes guarded, I could see that I'd surprised him. It was the first time I'd come into his room without knocking, without being invited in. I had not been thinking. I'd initially wanted to ask what he was doing, until one glance down his shorts provided sufficient answer.

"Why aren't you with the others?" I asked instead, my voice and manner perfectly nonchalant even as my mind reeled at what I had just taken in.

He did not reply at first, merely shrugged, and there was something in his eyes that was naked and quite painful to see. I turned and saw his teddy bear nearby and picked it up. As with the statue's arm, it would have to be my conduit, my way of diffusing a situation that could burn us right through if we so much as touched it; if we put flesh into it by means of words.

I put on a comic act as I whispered into his teddy's ear and, turning the bear toward him, said in a pantomime voice, "what's wrong? You look upset."

It worked a bit. I watched as a smile flitted through his face.

"Bad allergy," he replied succinctly and I could tell that he was desperate for this little interview to be over as much as I did.

"We probably have the same one," I replied readily as I set the teddy aside. "Come on, let's go for a swim."

He turned his face slightly away and his voice was soft when he said, "must we?"

I needed to leave, yet I would have stayed if he'd asked me to. Was this his way of saying it? I would have stayed and I would have regretted it. Or perhaps not.

"I'll meet you downstairs," I said as I finally turned away and headed to my room, ostensibly to change into my bathing trunks.

As I stood beside my bed with my hand over my mouth, I could hear a dull thud sounding through the wall. There came another and another as he banged his head against the bedboard.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. I could almost hear his thoughts, perfectly mirroring mine as I tried to take my mind off what I'd just seen: his boxers, with the stain visible in front. He was wet, and underneath the thin, damp fabric that covered him, he was fully aroused. Was he touching himself when he thought of me?

Why did it move me so, this palpable evidence of his desire?

I'd lost count of the people who'd wanted me in exactly the way he did. Those evenings and weekends as I worked through college and grad school tending bar and catering, playing poker, meeting all sorts of people on the side. Various girlfriends; my students and some colleagues, male and female, at Columbia. I'd been chased after, wooed and courted, sometimes coyly, sometimes quite elaborately, and I'd done my own chasing, my own wooing. What I'd not encountered was the painful, raging, raw honesty that was entirely, desperately unspoken by the young man with the languid dark eyes who was now beating his head against the bedboard next door.

If only he knew how much I wanted him in return.

I let my gaze wander as I tried to calm down, and one look at my bed told me that somebody had been there after Mafalda had finished making it that morning. Somebody had snuck in and lain on my bed, which was his bed, and rumpled Mafalda's precise, meticulous folding of the sheets, with only a hurried attempt to smoothen everything, quite imperfectly, afterward.

What had he done, what had he said to me as he lay there, dreaming of me?


End file.
